


Warm

by johnnywalkerblu



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:25:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2772941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnywalkerblu/pseuds/johnnywalkerblu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of the first season, they're on their way back to Fet's place to regroup.  Just a little bit of what might happen that night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm

**Author's Note:**

> Okay – so, I love these two. Completely and without reservation. And I hope they get a chance to explore their feelings for one another before whatever happens happens.

Cat alerts him to the presence of an intruder, standing up from her lazy curl beside his hip, leaping to his opposite shoulder and then to the top corner of the headboard, back against the bedpost, her tail a bottle-brush of annoyed tabby.

Dutch stops at the top step. “I didn’t mean to upset…is it a girl or a boy?”

“Neither now. She was a she, but no need for more stray kittens in the world.”

“Can I…come in?”

Vasya smiles at that, because the last thing there is in his eyrie is a door. “Sure.”

The lovely blond pauses by the bedside lamp, and the two females inspect each other warily. “What’s her name?” 

“Cat. We don’t stand on ceremony.”

Dutch holds out a hand, palm up, which Cat sniffs experimentally, deciding she can allow a tiny stroke of her chin before she takes off, leaping to his bookcase and scaling to the highest shelf.

“Problem?” he asks softly, drawing Dutch’s bright green gaze.

“Not really. Couldn’t sleep. Everyone else is. But I…”

"How long?'

"A couple of days actually. I just can't close my eyes without..."

He moves, and lifts, twitching the covers back on the empty side of his big bed. “Come on. Plenty of room.”

“Really?” The hesitancy in her face, which she’s trying like hell to brave out, makes his heart ache a little. “You don’t mind?”

“Cat might. Especially if you roll around a lot. But I don’t.”

She comes to his bed like Bambi to the spring, and he wonders for a long minute about the 'proper shithead' she told him about, hoping that if that's who is responsible for making this lovely woman act this way, he died a slow and painful death. But the last thing she needs is stared at, so he concentrates on his book, letting her take her own time about joining him, feeling the mattress dip as she first sits, then slides over, then pulls the sheet and blankets up around her.

Eyes on the page, he asks “…you gonna be warm enough?”

Hand sliding along under the top sheet, she opens a passageway between his space and hers; a nice little two-foot vent that will bring his body heat to her. “I will now.”

“Okay.”

A minute passes, two. “What are you reading?”

“If I mentioned the name Aleksandr Pushkin, would you know who that was?”

“Russian…poet, I think?”

“Very good. You get a gold star. Time period?”

She’s turned on her side now, arm under her head. “Hmmm, I’m going to say 1800s. I seem to remember him as parallel reading to Lord Byron.”

“Wow…” he murmurs, smiling over at her, “…you get another gold star. For all the marbles, can you tell me who Pushkin believed was the greatest Russian poet of his generation?”

“Not a chance.” 

“Evgeny Baratynsky.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it. Why?”

“Because he wasn’t a romantic. His thoughts are precise, like a well-honed knife. His verse is spare and beautiful…a windswept plain. Every emotion, but right in the palm of your hand.”

“No wonder you like it.”

“My mother always said that same thing. That it’s my character on a page. She’s not wrong, I guess.”

“Mothers usually aren’t.” Dutch observes softly, creeping another centimeter closer to his side. Close enough to see the cover of the collection he’s reading from. “You’re reading it in Russian.”

“Oh yeah. You can translate it to English, but it’s like Motley Crue on the accordion. That painful.”

Giggles bubble up out of her, and he allows himself the feeling of triumph at making her laugh.

“You were born there, weren’t you? In Russia?”

“Ukraine. My papa would shit if you called him Russian. But yes, born there. In Donetsk. Though we moved to Kiev when I was very small. They defected when I was eight. And I became an American when I was ten years old.”

She tries to imagine him at eight, or ten, and can’t do it. He’s too solidly entrenched in her mind as he is now. “What happens when you read it? I mean…does it sort of translate in front of your eyes? Because when I read code, that’s what happens to me.”

“No. I read it and I hear it in Russian in my head. I can make it be English, in my head, but it takes work.”

A slender capable hand brushes back long honey-colored hair and she moves again, close enough that the passageway between them is now more of a foyer. “How long did it take you to learn English?”

“I could speak English when I arrived. Also French, German and Ukrainian. I’ve lost some of the German now, but I could pick it back up if I needed to.”

“You could speak all those languages at…what?...seven?”

“Six. In my parents’ world, if you’re not at least tri-lingual, you’re lowering the IQ of the entire block. It just isn’t done.”

“Will you read it to me?”

“This?” He gives her a puzzled grin. “Why would you want me to? You won’t understand a word of it.”

“Because I want to hear what it sounds like. If you don’t want to…”

He holds up a calming hand. “I’d love to. Poetry is written to be spoken. Then if you want to know what he’s saying you can ask, okay?”

“Okay.” She moves a bit, getting settled, and the demarcation between his space and her space evaporates. She is chilled, he can feel that, but it won’t last. He’s just naturally warm-blooded; they’ll be the same temperature in no time.

He begins with _Poslednyaya Smert'_ , one of his favorites, and when he finishes, he looks over to find her closer yet, teary-eyed, biting her lip.

“Was that as, I don’t even know if I mean sad, as…bleak, as it sounded?”

“I wouldn’t call it bleak. He didn’t think it was anyway. He was looking at what he felt was a dying world, and rejoicing. Not that humanity would die, but that nature would return, and thrive. It’s like the people that shout at you about destroying the planet. We’re not going to destroy the planet. She’s tougher than us. Ourselves, now, that we may destroy. My buddy Evgeny here thought it was destined to happen.”

“Do you think so?”

“What? That we’re stupid enough to shit our own bed? Plenty of us are. Tell me that you don’t feel, in your gut, down in the pit of your heart, as soon as you see one of those munchers; that they want to kill you. Everyone feels that, but they tell themselves it’s not real, that it’s fixable, when inside they know better. So, yes, sure, I wouldn’t be one bit surprised if this was the end times, and humanity is decimated. But, time is a wheel, and all it knows is to roll. Maybe in ten thousand years we’ll be back on top.”

“Doesn’t that scare you?”

Watching her carefully, he tells her the unvarnished truth. “Not really, no.”

She’s biting her lip again. “Why not?”

“What good does that fear do me at this remove? Will it affect the thing that’s trying to kill me? Not at all. Will it help me make better decisions? No, it will only cloud my judgment. All fear can do is hold me back. And why should I let it. I’ve got things to do.” 

The tone is light, but the question is light years from it. “Save the world?”

Marking his place with a matchbook cover, he closes his book and sets it on the night table next to his watch, trying to think of how to make himself clear. “Making it safe is more what it is. That’s why I do what I do. Everyone should be able to feel safe from predators.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if that were possible.”

“It is possible. It takes dedication, but dedication is rewarded.”

He gets that haughty glance of hers, the one she hides her fear with, from lovely green eyes. “It’s awfully easy for you to talk about feeling safe, you’re huge. No one messes with you.”

“This is a case where size doesn’t matter.” he teases quietly, reaching up to snap off the light, then settling down onto his pillow and bringing the duvet up over his shoulder. “It’s about will. But you already know that, that’s what took you into Palmer’s office. Remember? When you punched him in the face and they were gonna shoot us?” There’s no response to that, and he opens his eyes to find her watching him. “What?”

“This is probably the lamest thing I’ve ever said in my life, but…”

“Can we just cuddle?” he growls. “I won’t elaborate on how many times I’ve heard that before.” Seeing the wariness leap back into her eyes, he lifts his arm and makes the offer. “C’mon over.”

He sees her thinking about it, and he stays quiet, letting her decide. That soft full lip comes in for another round of thoughtful biting, and then, decision made, she unbends, crossing the cool expanse of mattress between them and slipping, soft and curved and slender and deliciously, fragrantly female, into his arms.

Instinct successfully conquered after a pitched little battle in his brain, he unclenches his fists and bundles her close without manhandling her, settling her onto his chest, his arms a loose circle around her. “Okay?”

A soft sleepy murmur into his dark gray t-shirt, and a long bare arm is draped over his ribs. “I see what you mean actually…” she breathes, “...safe as houses right here.”

“Safe as houses.” he agrees quietly. “Go to sleep, sladkaya moya.”

“…’s that mean?” She’s barely there, his warmth and the slow steady beat of his heart under her cheek reassuring her, lulling her out into the ether, right where she needs to go.

“Tell you later.” he whispers, stroking her hair. “Sleep now.”


End file.
